Vertigo Read online

  ‘No need to pity the dead,’ grunted the old man. ‘They’re better off than we are.’

  Flavières pushed back the horrible images which rose to his mind. He felt the bitter impotence of tears that would not flow. More than ever now, it was finished: the page was turned. Madeleine was annihilated. In antique manner she had had her funeral pyre—of T.N.T.—and her ashes had been scattered by the blast. That face which came to haunt him was now nothing, nothing at all. He must push it back into the shades where it belonged, and try to live…

  ‘The flat?’

  ‘Shut up for the moment… Some kind of cousin of hers has inherited the building… It’s all very sad.’

  ‘Yes,’ murmured Flavières, ‘it’s very sad.’

  He picked up his hat and rose to his feet.

  ‘It’s a shock, I know,’ said the concierge, ‘when you suddenly hear of the death of an old friend.’

  The old man began nailing on the new sole, the blows of his hammer making ugly thumps. Flavières almost ran into the street, where the drizzle deposited a slimy film on his face. He could feel the fever once more, rising in his arteries. Crossing the road, he sat down in the little café where he had once filled in the time, waiting for Madeleine.

  ‘Give me something strong.’

  ‘You look as if you needed it.’

  The man looked round, then lowered his voice to ask:

  ‘A little whisky?’

  Flavières lolled against the bar. A glow of warmth was spreading through his chest. His grief was melting like a lump of ice, was changing into a calm melancholy.

  The doctor was right, of course. He had to go slow; he needed sunshine and an easy mind. That was the most important thing of all—an easy mind. He mustn’t think of Madeleine. He had meant, in coming to Paris, to visit her grave. She no longer had one. That was all to the good: the last link was broken. His pilgrimage had come to an end, here in this little bistrot in front of a glass of sunny yellow liquor. All that he had loved, the vagrant spirit, the gentle stranger he had dragged back from the shadows that lured her, all led up to this glass of whisky in which it was now to dissolve.

  Perhaps the whole story had been a dream, conceived in a moment of exaltation. No, it couldn’t be: he still had the lighter. He put a cigarette between his lips, took the gold lighter from his pocket. For a second or two he weighed it in the hollow of his hand. Should he throw it away? Or if he hadn’t the courage for that, he might merely lose it, like a dog one hasn’t the heart to destroy. Perhaps, but later on. For the moment…

  He had just made a decision, succumbed rather to one that had been made for him, as always. He put down his empty glass and paid royally. He liked to see faces light up with a servile joy.

  ‘Is it possible to get a taxi?’

  ‘Hum! It’s not easy. How far do you want to go?’

  ‘Near Mantes.’

  ‘Gracious! Still, I’ll see what I can do.’

  Smiling all the time at Flavières, he put through three telephone calls. After the last, he said:

  ‘Gustave’ll take you. It may be a bit expensive, of course. With the price of petrol on the black market…’

  The taxi, an old bone-shaker, was there in no time. Before leaving, Flavières stood drinks all round. He had no scruples when he had an aim in view. He explained carefully to Gustave:

  ‘We’re going to a little place north of Mantes. Between Sailly and Drocourt there’s a tiny village… But I’ll show you the way… I shan’t be there long…’

  They drove off. The wintry roads told a mournful story of skirmishes, battles, and bombings. Chilled to the bone, Flavières sat huddled in his corner, watching the black fields sweep past, trying to conjure up pictures of budding trees and beds of white flowers. In vain. Madeleine was slipping away from him: she was beginning really to die. Come on! Another effort!

  He knew very well he had never been really in love. He had never seen himself with such clarity as now. He had taken to drink just to silence this sceptical, sneering observer who liked to knock the bottom out of every illusion, who accused him of deluding himself with storybook stuff, of reciting to himself an interminable elegy to gratify his taste for melancholy, solitude, and impotence. Only, it needed always more and more drink to banish this cynical debunker. Only when several glasses had spread their numbing warmth through his brain could Madeleine reappear, gentle and merciful. She spoke to him of the life that might have been, and he glowed with happiness. But it was the other Flavières who woke up next morning with his mouth full of bitter, insulting words.

  ‘Here’s Sailly,’ cried Gustave.

  With his fingers, Flavières cleared a space on the misty window.

  ‘Turn right at the next crossing. Then it’ll be two or three kilometres.’

  The taxi rattled along a lane full of ruts and potholes. Drips from the wet trees, blackened by the rain, fell on to the dead leaves in the ditches. Now and again a house slipped by, a wisp of blue smoke rising from the chimney.

  ‘There’s a church ahead,’ said Gustave.

  ‘With a tall tower? That’s the place.’

  The car drew up in front of the church, just as the Simca had done long ago. Flavières got out and looked up at the cornice which ran round the tower. He wasn’t moved. But he had never felt colder in his life. He went off to find the houses whose roofs he had seen from the tower. There they were, huddled on the side of the hill under the bare branches of the chestnut trees, a dozen or so cottages round which hens were silently wandering about. A low shop-window, the lettering almost effaced. Flavières went in. A smell of candles and paraffin. A few picture postcards were turning yellow on a shelf.

  ‘What do you want?’ asked an old woman, emerging from the room behind.

  ‘Is there any chance of getting some eggs? Or some meat? I’m an invalid, and you know what it’s like in Paris.’

  He didn’t ask humbly or insinuatingly enough. He was certain she was going to refuse. With an off-hand air, he studied the picture postcards.

  ‘Never mind,’ he said, ‘I’ll try somewhere else. But I’ll take this card of the church… Saint-Nicolas, is it?… That rings a bell. Didn’t I read about it in the papers way back in 1940—in May, I think. Wasn’t there some talk of a suicide?’

  ‘Yes. A woman fell from the church tower.’

  ‘I remember now. Wife of a Paris industrialist, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes. Madame Gévigne. I shall never forget the name. It was I who found the body. We’ve had troubles enough since then, but I still think of that poor creature.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have any eau-de-vie, would you? I don’t seem able to keep the cold out.’

  She looked at him with eyes that had seen the flux and reflux of war and which no longer expressed anything.

  ‘I dare say I could give you a drop.’

  Flavières stuffed the postcard into his pocket and put some coins on the counter. The woman soon came back with a bottle and a glass. It was horrible stuff and burnt his throat.

  ‘A funny idea to throw oneself from a church tower.’

  She stowed her hands away under her shawl. Perhaps she didn’t think it such a bad idea as all that.

  ‘She made sure of getting what she wanted,’ she answered. ‘Why, it’s sixty feet and more up to that belfry. She fell head first.’

  It was on the tip of Flavières’ tongue to say:

  ‘I know. I saw her.’

  His breath was coming a bit quicker now, but he didn’t really think he was suffering. Only, he felt again Madeleine was slipping from him, was really destroying herself for good and all. Each word that fell from the old woman’s lips was like a shovelful of earth on the half-filled grave.

  ‘I was all alone in the village at the time,’ she went on. ‘All the men had been called up, and the women were out working in the fields. At six o’clock I went into the church to say a prayer for my boy who was right up in the front—in the Corps Franc, you know.’

&
nbsp; She was silent for a minute. A shrunken little woman in black clothes.

  ‘I came out through the sacristy door to take a short cut across the churchyard, so I couldn’t help seeing her, lying at the foot of the tower… What a job I had getting through to the Gendarmerie…’

  She stared at the hens scratching about round the doorway. She was no doubt recalling the fear and oppression of that evening, the gendarmes coming and going and examining the ground by the light of their electric torches.

  ‘It must have been a painful experience,’ said Flavières.

  ‘Yes. And to make it worse we had the gendarmes here for a whole week. They would have it the poor woman had been pushed.’

  ‘Pushed? What made them think that?’

  ‘Someone in Sailly said he’d seen a man and a woman in a car, driving this way.’

  Flavières lit a cigarette. So that’s what it was! Someone had seen him, and he’d been taken for the husband. So he was more than ever responsible for Gévigne’s death.

  But what was the good of trying to straighten things out now? No one would be interested. He emptied his glass and looked round for something else he could buy. There was nothing but brooms, bundles of firewood, and balls of string.

  ‘Thanks for the eau-de-vie,’ he murmured.

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  He went out; he threw away his cigarette, which was making him cough. Back at the church, he hesitated. Should he go in once again, to kneel where she had prayed? No. Her prayer had been in vain. Her body had been blasted into space. He thought of the doctrine of the resurrection of the body. How could Madeleine’s body be pieced together again on the Day of Judgment from the atoms into which it had disintegrated?

  ‘Adieu, Madeleine,’ he whispered, looking up at the cross round which the rooks were cawing.

  ‘Back to Paris, Monsieur?’

  ‘Back to Paris.’

  And as the taxi jostled once again along the lane and he turned to cast a final glance at the receding church, he felt sure that at last he was leaving the past behind. At the turning they were just coming to, it would, with that ominous tower, be blotted out for ever. He shut his eyes and dozed all the way back to Paris.

  Yet that afternoon he couldn’t resist going to see Dr. Ballard and pouring out the whole story, as to a father confessor. With a few omissions, of course. He didn’t pronounce the name of Gévigne, nor did he mention the suspicions of the police. He could no longer bottle it up. More than once he almost wept.

  ‘So it comes to this,’ said the psychiatrist, ‘you’re still looking for her. You refuse to believe she’s dead.’

  Flavières demurred.

  ‘It’s not exactly that. She’s dead, obviously. I know she is. But I can’t help thinking all the same… of course you’ll say this is crazy… I can’t help thinking of her great-grandmother, Pauline Lagerlac… There was something closer than mere family relationship between them, something…’

  ‘What you’re trying to tell me is that this young woman, Madeleine, had already been dead once. That’s it, isn’t it? That’s what you believe?’

  ‘It’s not a belief, Doctor. What I’ve been telling you is what I heard with my own ears and saw with my own eyes.’

  ‘Whatever you heard or saw, it boils down to this: that Madeleine may quite well be alive, since she has come back from the grave once already.’

  ‘If you put it in that way…’

  ‘You don’t put it quite so baldly, of course. On the contrary you unconsciously do all you can to blur the outlines… Lie down on the couch, will you?’

  The doctor spent a long time testing his reflexes. He made a face.

  ‘Did you drink before?’

  ‘No. I began in Dakar, and little by little…’

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘I’m wondering whether you really want to be cured.’

  ‘I certainly do.’

  ‘Then you must stop drinking. You must get this woman out of your mind. You must tell yourself she’s dead. Permanently dead. Do you understand? Permanently… But once again: do you really want to be cured? Sincerely?’

  ‘Yes, sincerely.’

  ‘Then you must take the bull by the horns. No wobbling. I’ll give you a note for a friend of mine who has a home near Nice.’

  ‘You’re not going to shut me up?’

  ‘No, no. You’re not as bad as that. I’m sending you there partly because of the climate. Coming back from the tropics, you need plenty of sunshine. Have you got any money?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I warn you, it may take quite a long time.’

  ‘I’ll stay as long as necessary.’

  ‘Splendid.’

  Flavières sat down, feeling weak in the legs. He hardly listened any more to the doctor. He was too busy repeating to himself:

  ‘I want to be cured. Sincerely.’

  And to begin the treatment he really regretted having ever loved Madeleine. He was going to start life afresh, turn over a new leaf. Later on, he would be able to approach other women, be like other men… The doctor was still giving him advice. Flavières accepted it, promising this, promising that. Yes, he would take a train south that very evening. Yes, he would stop drinking. Yes, he would rest. Yes… yes… yes.

  ‘Shall I call a taxi for you?’ asked the doctor’s secretary.

  ‘It’ll do me good to walk a bit.’

  He went to a travel agency. A notice said that all trains were booked up for a week ahead. Flavières took out his wallet and booked a seat for that very night. All he had to do now was to telephone to the Palais de Justice and his bank. When everything was settled, he wandered about this town in which he was now a stranger. His train went at nine. He’d have dinner at his hotel. That left four hours to kill. He went into a cinema without even bothering to see what was showing. All he wanted was to forget his visit to Dr. Ballard and all those questions he’d been asked. He had never for a moment seriously considered the possibility he might be going mad. Now he was afraid. He felt clammy between the shoulders. He was dying for a drink. Once again he began to hate himself with a shudder of disgust.

  The screen lit up and with a blare of music the news was announced. It began with General de Gaulle’s visit to Marseilles. Uniforms, flags, bayonets, the crowd being with difficulty pressed back on to the pavement. Close-ups of spectators caught with their mouths wide open, yelling cheers that couldn’t be heard. A fat man waving his hat. A woman who turned slowly round and faced the camera. The eyes were pale, and the delicate features recalled some portrait by Lawrence. The camera moved on, but Flavières had had time to recognize her. Half rising from his seat he thrust a terrified face towards the screen.

  ‘Sit down,’ cried a voice. ‘Sit down.’

  He dragged at his collar, his chest bursting with a suffocating cry. He gazed blindly at the marching troops and heard a flourish of trumpets. A rough hand dragged him back into his seat.

  TWO

  No. It was not Madeleine… He had stayed till the news came round again, and forced himself to look coolly at the picture. He had waited for that face with all his attention concentrated, determined not merely to see it clearly, but to memorize it. And suddenly there it was, for a second or two, and one part of him, as before, had been completely bowled over, while the other part hadn’t so much as winced. The woman on the screen was about thirty and inclined to be plump. What else?… Her mouth certainly wasn’t the same. Yet the resemblance was undeniable—particularly the eyes. Mobilizing all his faculties, Flavières tried to compare the two faces, but in the end he could only see splodges of colour, as if he had been gazing too long at a bright light.

  He went back again in the evening. Never mind: he would take the train tomorrow night… And in the evening he made a discovery: the man next to her was obviously with her—a husband or a lover. He was holding her arm, afraid perhaps of losing her in the crush. On this occasion, Flavières noticed quite a lot he hadn’
t seen before. The man was well dressed, with a rather showy pearl tie-pin. The woman had a fur coat on.

  Flavières came away after the news. The streets were poorly lit. It was still drizzling and he pulled his hat down over his eyes, because of the wind. As he did so, other things came back to him. The man at Marseilles had an overcoat on, but was bareheaded, and behind him, rather out of focus, was the façade of a hotel with three big letters one above the other: RIA. Probably the name of the hotel, lit up at night; something like Astoria… What else?

  Nothing else. At least nothing factual. But it amused Flavières to see how much he could build on what he had seen. It was such a long time since he’d played the detective. They would be staying in that hotel, and would have dashed out to see the procession pass… As for the resemblance…

  There certainly was one. But what of it? A likeness—what a thing to make a fuss about! As though one wasn’t reminded of people every day! And he had allowed himself to get upset once again. There was a certain happy man in Marseilles who had a girl whose eyes happened to… As for happy men, they’d be common as dirt now, with a war just over. He’d have to get used to that idea, even if it was a slightly painful one… At his hotel, Flavières made straight for the bar. Admittedly he’d promised that medico… but he needed a glass or two to get his own back on the happy couple staying at the Astoria.

  ‘Whisky, please.’

  He had three. It didn’t matter now that he was going to take himself in hand seriously. He found whisky more efficacious than brandy. Almost at a blow, it dispelled the regrets, the suspicions, the resentments. There always remained something—a confused feeling of enormous injustice—but no alcohol on earth would ever quite remove that. Flavières went to bed. He’d been a fool to postpone his departure.

  The next morning, slipping some notes into the ticket collector’s hand, he settled down in a first-class compartment. This infinite power of money! But it had come too late. It didn’t bring serenity, didn’t stop him being feverish, gloomy, or washed out. If he’d been rich before the war, if he’d been able to offer Madeleine… There he was again! He was going to put an end to that.